


Like His Long Sleep

by illwynd



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Brother Feels, Horror, Intimacy, M/M, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2535566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/illwynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Odin dies in battle, Thor inherits the Odinforce—and the Odinsleep. When he cannot be woken, the people of Asgard call upon the new king's sorcerous brother-enemy for help. But Loki's intentions soon go awry, and he just might be in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like His Long Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Robert Frost's "After Apple Picking."
> 
> Happy Halloween everybody!

It has begun to consume him. Loki is aware of this, vaguely, but he finds he doesn’t care. He has far more pressing things to worry about.

Some months ago Odin was slain in a great battle in another realm. This occurred at nearly the same moment as his golden son claimed victory elsewhere on the bloodstained field, the lightning crashing all around him. Odin had fallen, the death of the old god sudden and swift as a released breath, and as inevitable.

And it was an end. A passing from one to the next. From father to heir.

As Thor came back to the gates of Asgard, at the head of a golden trail of triumphant men, he began to stumble. The Odinforce filled him, bright and glittering as the sky of a billion years ago, scintillating light behind his eyelids. While his hammer still dripped with the ichor of the battle, while the clatter of battered armour and the cries of returning warriors sounded around him, Thor fell to his knees. The war had not weakened him. The losses, terrible as they were, had not laid him low. But he at once found himself too weary to take another step. His mighty arms sank him bodily to the flagstones. His eyes, the lids so heavy, fell closed as the blue behind them dimmed with the coming of dreams.  

The Odinsleep, massive and dark as a high green wave sweeping down upon a heedless shore. Or, now, the Thorsleep.

The old god had once been the master of that rejuvenation; the younger god was not.

Half a year later and he still had not woken. And Asgard at last asked Loki to come to him, to see if the sorcerer _—_ wayward but powerful _—_ could rouse his brother from his overwhelming slumber.

Loki read the summons, curiosity quivering in his belly. He lingered barely an hour before rushing back to the place that was once his home.

~*~

_It has begun to consume him._

At the end of the day, after the third week, he pushes past a guard on the way out of the royal chamber, his feet unsteady beneath him as he rasps out yet another excuse to the guard who swings the door quickly wide as he passes. He will succeed, he promises. He needs but a little longer. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. For now he must—

But he does not sleep when he reaches the nearby room that he has appropriated for himself. He sometimes idly wonders if the servants are baffled, if they have come to tidy and straighten the place and fix the sheets, only to find—but Loki does not even think of the bed, scoffs at it, would find no rest there.

He has no desire for his own dull dreams.

Nervously he paces before forcing himself to sit, perching at the dark smooth wood of the desk, pen in his shaky hand, blank pages in front of him. He stares at them for long minutes, blinking, frowning.

He should be writing down what he knows, what he has learned, so that he will remember; once he would hardly have needed to do so, would have found it simple to keep the knowledge safely in his own skull. But memory seems less certain now, harder to dredge from waters gone murky and bestirred, and he’s not entirely sure why he…

His head nods sharply forward. When his eyes snap open they are gazing upon a scratchy line of ink left as his hand jerked, the nib skittering across the paper like a dying spider.

A breathy laugh as he shakes himself and gets up again _—_ his body believes it is tired, but he does not need sleep. He has spent all day in dreams.

But though he is not tired, he is ravenous. He has forgotten to eat, for how long he cannot remember. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach drives him to the cupboard in the corner, the small loaf of bread that he remembers leaving there days ago _—_ half stale by now, but that hardly matters. Loki devours the loaf, choking it down like a lump of dry sand, barely tasting it and not wanting to.

He has tasted such food as is not found in the waking world. His brother does not go hungry in his dreams, cup forever brimming with dream-mead clear and golden and perfect.

_It has begun to consume him. Loki knows this but he does not care._

The Thorsleep is no ordinary slumber. Most sleep is far too fragile, most dreams far too flimsy, for a sorcerer to do more than brush the lightest, deftest hand against them before they dissipate, like rings of smoke on the air. But the spell that Loki has devised carries him deep within the thunderer’s dreams, though he is forever aware of the unreality of the walls that rise high and vivid around him, of the skies bluer than any real sky and the sun brighter than gold…

His brother dreams Asgard like paradise. Loki could laugh or weep at that, the place Thor’s dreams make it out to be. He could breathe the air there forever, pure and green and fresh, carrying scents of spring bloom and winter ice, summer downpour and autumn leaves, with hints on it of all the weather of the world, the storm and the peace that falls after, as if his brother could hold all of it within him.

The window, when he opens it here, only lets in a chill. He shuts it again quickly and goes back to the desk, dropping himself down and picking up the pen once more, rubbing the heel of his other hand against his eyes. The room is too dim for this work; he blinks and squints in annoyance at the cream-white of the paper with its scratchy ink line. With a weak spurt of magic he urges the little candle flames brighter. It helps only a little.

He knows, particularly, that he should write down the spell. He has been meaning to. It is not the sort of thing that anyone else would stumble upon, and perhaps… perhaps…

_The sun on the grass is blindingly bright, and Loki closes his eyes._

Thor does not know.  Thor is unaware that he is only dreaming. He does not know that Loki has come here to rescue him, to bring him back.

Loki would have done it; the first time he’d cast the spell he had meant to. He had meant to find Thor and yank him out, like a speared fish pulled out of a pool, blood running wet down its sides. He had meant to—but only because the idea of having Thor indebted to him made him maliciously happy, as did the idea of saving his life only to threaten it again the first moment it pleased him.

But Thor does not know that it is all but a dream, and in his perfect Asgard, they have spent hours…

 _Loki blinks down at the page._ A messy scrawl, a few cramped words. _The Odinforce. The Odinsleep._ The name of his once-father is underlined, darkly, though he does not remember doing it. He frowns, memories tangled and dim. There is a buzzing hum throughout his body as if he were truly exhausted, as if he had not slept for a month and might slump over at any moment. But he does not need to sleep. He does not _wish_ to sleep. He will be back in dreams when he returns to Thor’s bedside tomorrow, and that will be enough.

_He lies to Thor every day. He finds him, comes to him, and eventually (when he can no longer avoid leaving again) he lies to him, slips away, pushes up out of the spell like breaking the water’s surface to gulp air, but no drowner has ever been so reluctant. Every time, Thor listens sadly to his excuses and lets him go._

_Every time Loki returns again, later, it is almost like the first time for how Loki is stricken by the sight of him. The light shining in Thor’s face, his welcoming smile. The way he says Loki’s name, as if it is the only word that matters._

_In Thor’s dreams, they have never been at war with each other._

Loki knows this is consuming him, but he does not care.

In a room nearby, a little trapped cell of hushed air stiflingly warm, the now-king of Asgard lies with arms folded on his chest, face blank and unmoving, the line of his sleeping mouth stern. His skin, when one touches it (perhaps to begin the day’s attempt, the ungenerous eyes of the guards all watching), is dry and almost cool. The golden glow around him fades at its edges into darkness.

When he wakes he won’t remember. He won’t remember these dreams. Loki tells himself that again and again, and it is all he hopes, and all he fears, for they have been at war with each other for years, at each other’s throats, and when Thor wakes it will be that way once again.

The certainty of this is like a stone within Loki’s chest. It is tight as a clenched fist. It is heavy and immovable as Uru-matter. He murmurs the assurance again to himself: Thor will not remember.

_“Brother,” Thor murmurs, nuzzling against him._

_It is Thor’s perfect Asgard, and the very first time Loki came to him there, found him, Thor somehow knew; he had sensed that Loki was troubled, and he had held out a hand, imploring Loki to share his burden. And Loki had gone. He had… he had given in, sinking down at Thor’s side and into his embrace. He had not admitted anything, only let Thor hold him, feeling their breaths pressing their bodies together in slow rhythm. Loki had given in, let Thor pull him closer, let Thor’s arms tighten protectively around him until the shame stopped choking him._

_It is still always there, shame at how he wants that closeness, shame at how deeply he needs it. He is a monster and they are enemies, and if Thor knew it he would not hold him like this, would not want to be near him…_

_It frightens him that in this dream he is not sure whether that is a lie or a truth. It frightens him but still he does it. He goes back every day and they end up like this, curled together _—_ sometimes even on Thor’s bed, legs entwined, touching, smiling, talking a little but hardly needing to _—_ as hours slip through their fingers like water, like wind and raindrops through a cloud._

_The only thing that makes it all right is that he knows it will not matter. Thor will not remember this._

The pen is still in his hand when Loki jolts awake again, heart pounding.

He cannot have drifted off for more than a moment, but it was long enough for a nightmare, and it clings dark and sticky to his thoughts, confusion making it seem sensible to scramble for the small hand mirror in the drawer. In it sweat drips from his brow, his skin is sallow, eyes sunken and piercing. He sets the little mirror aside with a breathy laugh.

It was only a dream—a fragile, flimsy wisp of a dream.

And he is not afraid of dreams, of nightmares. He gets to his feet, paces back and forth to keep the exhaustion at bay, to keep his eyes from closing involuntarily. What consumes him is the desire to go back to the little cot he’s had set up next to Thor’s bed since the very first day—he almost smells the burnt herbs of the spell, almost feels the hum in the back of his throat as he intones the voiceless words just before closing his own eyes—because it will not last indefinitely.

Thor will not sleep forever. It is only that the Odinforce hit him all weary and unprepared, probably before he had known it was coming; it runs rampant in him now, but eventually Thor will tame it. He is the king of Asgard, the power is his. Loki has not been wholly negligent in his journeys into Thor’s dreams. He has felt out Thor’s mind, his resolve, found him to be healthy and strong as ever. Eventually he will waken, the Thorforce infusing every cell of his body. And then the dream will be over, and Loki will…

It will be over, and Thor will not remember. Loki is endlessly, endlessly glad of that.

But at the same time, he cannot imagine what he will do. Where he will go. How he will go back to how things were.

At least he does not need to answer that question yet. He is sure he has time until Thor is ready to awaken, and in but another hour or two he will be ready to go back and make another “attempt.” He doesn’t want to waste a single moment of the chance he has now, and certainly not to something as unimportant as sleep.

He paces, swaying from lack of rest, and beneath his feet is trod a piece of paper swept off his desk, with nearly illegible scribbles in his own hand, already forgotten.

_bows to Odin’s line_

_Odin’s blood_

_will tame it, will emerge unscathed, will not be consumed_

_am not of Odin’s line_

~*~

That is the day that Loki falls asleep in Thor’s arms. Thor had been overwhelmed with duties and tasks for weeks, for Loki had begun coming to him just to be with him—it should not be so strange, he thinks, but… it makes him happier than he can explain, more than he can give any reason for. He knows his brother has always loved him. How strange it is, then, that days ago—upon what he thinks of as Loki’s return though he does not know where his brother might have gone—Loki had looked at him as if expecting Thor to strike him, his eyes hardened in preparation. Thor had not understood that; he had felt an inexplicable need to press him, to coax Loki back with him, as if afraid of his brother disappearing—though he could not have said why.

That day had ended with them sprawled together on Thor’s bed in a strange, quiet intimacy that Thor could not have explained except that it was what they both needed. It was what soothed the wariness from Loki’s eyes and filled a hole in Thor’s heart that he had not known existed.  

Since then, they had spent each day thus, forsaking the rest of golden Asgard, and Thor is happier than he has ever been.  

He could spend the rest of his life with Loki’s body fitted so warm and tender against his, their limbs tangled together. Low whispers passing between them expressing every fleeting muse and every deepest secret. It comforts him. But—and Thor had not realized it, had never thought of it at all—neither of them had ever fallen asleep like that before.

But now Loki sleeps, and he does not stir when Thor, grinning, blows a few strands of hair from across his nose.

He does not stir when Thor scuffs a hand on his shoulder and whispers his name, or when he does it again a bit more forcefully a moment later.

“Loki? Loki, are you…”

But his brother does not stir, not even when Thor kisses his brow and teases him gently for his slumber.

And Thor subsides. _Loki must be weary indeed,_ he thinks, contented and stroking idly at the inky black fan of hair across the pillow, gazing at the perfect angle of his brother’s cheek. _So I will let him sleep._

~*~

The night is calm and cool, and Loki sits at his desk, brow drawn in a little expression of uncertainty.

He is aware of Thor in the next room; Loki knows his brother is waiting for him, and he will go to him soon, but he emerged from their shared bedroom when the most peculiar feeling of work left undone came over him in the midst of their lazy evening. He’d felt sure, when he clambered out of bed, pressing a warm kiss to Thor’s shoulder and assuring him that he’d be only a moment, that he had forgotten some crucial bit of paperwork, but he’s thumbed through everything on his desk and it is all in perfect order.

He almost laughs at himself for inventing troubles where there are none, as if by habit of expecting them. Perhaps that is the price of his life having become perfect ever since he and Thor found a way that they could both be king, ruling together to take best advantage of their complementing skills. Ever since he woke from a nightmare in which he’d been a monster, in which he’d made war on his brother, in which he’d tried to kill Thor and nearly succeeded—he had shivered in his bed for hours after that, until he got up the courage to sneak into Thor’s room and bury himself under the blankets at his brother’s side as he’d done when they were small, resolve growing in him that he would not let the nightmare become true.

He had crawled up under the blankets until he could look into his brother’s eyes, entwining their fingers together as he told Thor everything that he had never admitted to before _—_ all the shadows within him, rage and resentment and love _—_ the awful risk stealing his breath with an almost overwhelming urge to tear his hand away and deny it all again out of sheer perversity… but Thor had only tightened his grasp and told his own secrets in return.

Somehow they had ended up like this, in each other’s arms, closer than they’d ever been. Allies and co-rulers. Brothers. Lovers.

The darkness he has always known within himself is not gone, but now he sees that it is the darkness that accompanies a storm, the two intertwined. Thor welcomes it. And they are at its center, standing together in the downpour.

Loki’s life is so perfect now that he could almost think it a dream. But it is not.

He smiles as he pushes his chair back from his desk, shrugs his shoulders, glances out the window at the night sky before turning toward the bedroom once more; there is nothing left undone, and Thor is waiting for him.

~*~

Loki is smiling in his sleep.

Thor stays curled around his brother’s sleeping form as the happiness from before bleeds slowly away as night comes, as the hour at which Loki would usually depart passes.

Thor has always wondered where he disappears to, but this time Loki does not stir. Something goes unsettled in the pit of Thor’s stomach, turning cold, and he strokes his brother’s soft raven hair over and over, hoping that he will open his eyes, but it does not happen.

He waits as hours flicker away, the stars beyond the window scattered like sand.

He is still waiting when the light of morning spreads, slow and thin and silver, spilling across them both. It illuminates a pale face, beautiful and still and locked inside sleep, brow smoothed, eyes closed. Thor puts his lips gently to his brother’s, and he doesn’t understand why his heart aches so.  

Surely Loki must waken soon.

~*~

 _The Odinforce would be an overwhelming power to any who had not the innate ability to control it; those of Bor’s line—of Odin’s line, of Thor’s line—have within them the necessary strength. The force bows to Odin’s line, to Odin’s blood. Thor, as the heir to that line, is in no true danger. Though he sleeps now, he will master the power in time. He will tame the Odinforce and emerge unscathed. He will not be consumed; he will wake, stronger than he has ever been. It will be glorious._

_He is in no danger, because Odin’s blood flows in his veins._

_But I am not of Odin’s line._

_And I fear this dream has begun to consume me already._

_… I am so very tired …_  

       —These words, written in black ink in an unsteady hand, were found on a single piece of cream-colored paper discovered on the floor  
           of the chambers used by the sorcerer-prince between his ill-fated attempts. 

 

 


End file.
